A deep, delicious hush in earth and sky -- 
A gracious lull--since, from its wakening, 
The morn has been a feverish, restless thing 
In which the pulse of Summer ran too high 
And riotous, as though its heart went nigh 
To bursting with delights past uttering: 
Now--as an o'erjoyed child may cease to sing 
All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye 
Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale 
To brim his dreams with--there comes o'er the day 
A loathful silence wherein all sounds fail 
Like loitering sounds of some roundelay . . . 
No wakeful effort longer may avail -- 
The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away.